


The Scenic Route

by viceindustrious



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: Set during S01E06 - John and Joe take a short detour on the way to the airport.





	The Scenic Route

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClementineStarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/gifts).



> Thanks go from the very top of my heart down to the hadal zone to Starling, who waits literal millennia in terms of fandom spans for me to finish the fic that I've promised her, all while being a constant inspiration and the best fellow degenerate a chap could hope for. 
> 
> Additional thanks to everyone writing in this fandom and especially the guys over on the TMitHC Discord (please come join if you haven't and would like to, everyone is so splendid I promise https://discord.gg/rX5m3Qd ) - you're all wonderful.

  They drive up through Eriton, out onto the long grey ribbon of the highway; their left shoulder flanked by neat rows of young trees, the right a bland and pleasant expanse of grass, broken occasionally by the billboards (some new and vibrant, government messaging, and summer-bleached ads for shaving soap and beer) that make up the only minor landmarks on the gently rolling road.

  The sun's strong for September, baking the dark steel roof of the Obergruppenführer's car. The hum of the engine is low and lazy, a steady vibration that Joe finds soothing, like the heat of the glass against his arm and the seat creaking comfortably under his weight; the warm leather that's part of a lingering new-car-smell and the stronger scent of John's clothes and cologne, of _John_.

  Last week is still a jumble of mismatched scenes in his mind, not quite a nightmare but just as hard to pick apart and make any real sense from. _What does he do? What happens next?_ _Does it matter?_ Right now he could almost forget it all in the simple line of the unfolding road, Obergruppenführer Smith in the driving seat.

  His eyes dart to John, not for the first time in the last little while and maybe once too often because this time John catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow.

  “What is it, Joe?”

  Joe's eyes fall to Smith's green woollen cardigan. “Nothing, sir.”

   He wets his lips and takes a breath and almost thinks of saying it, _it's strange seeing you out of uniform, sir._ Something like that. Maybe. Just thinking the words makes his stomach twist in a hot, slippery knot of exposure. John's already got that slight quirk of a smile on his face, amused and appraising, as though Joe doesn't need to do one damn thing more to tell him everything he needs to know.

  It's certain. Joe knows he's given something away, but he's not sure what except those cardigan buttons make him flush as he thinks of John surrounded by his family, John's hand on his shoulder as he ruffles Max's fur, throwing a ball around with Thomas, the unexpected swell of pleasure at getting to ride along in the front seat and help ( _father_ ) with this errand.

 “I was surprised,” John says, turning his attention back to the road. “That you didn't have plans to spend today with Rita and her boy.”

 “Oh...” There's a screen of static in Joe's head. “Well...”

 He leans back against the headrest, the short hairs on the back of his neck sticking there in a prickle of static.“I think she's taking him up to see her folks,” he says and gives a lopsided shrug, thinking to leave it at that but then there's always something about the sort of silence that John creates that makes him itchy to fill it. He shrugs again, wiping his palms on his trousers. “I haven't actually spoken to her since the uh...well, since I left.”

 “You didn't call?” John asks. There's no inflection to his voice.

  Joe looks down into the well of the car and stares at his shoes, the best pair he owns. They're still a little scuffed even though he'd done his best at polishing them up last night the way he vaguely remembers being drilled on. The fierce thrust of sunlight through the car window makes his cheeks feel like they're burning.

 “I was focussed on the mission.”

 Making midnight phone calls under the solitary glare of a street light, picking at stickers with catchy German slogans with the edge of his thumbnail, cradling a receiver in the bleak impersonality of a hotel room, his heart in his throat to hear the line pick up – not to Rita of course.

 “That's good, Joe.”

 Joe chews the inside of his cheek and glances up at John again. There's nothing reassuring in the mildness of his tone and nothing to decipher from his face. _You failed, Joe_ , it sounded just like that, like yesterday. Now the dumb urge to try and explain himself again twitches on his tongue, he knows by now it's useless. It's like a nettle sting lodged somewhere deep inside him, what's he good for anyway? _Look at that smile_ , his mom used to say, pinching his cheeks too hard, wine on her breath, _they'll all fall in love with my little boy_.

 “Looks like we're making good time,” John says.

 Snapped out of his reverie, Joe looks stupidly at the small plastic clock on the dashboard, as though he's got any idea when the flight's due in, and nods his head. Yes, he thinks, it would be nice to stay here for a while, no decisions to dwell on apart from maybe how much room he should leave for dessert later. No mysterious folders or mysterious girls, just potatoes and chicken.

 John pats him on the leg.

  

They come off the highway and carry on down a narrower, dustier road, cresting up a hill and round a bend and on again a way until John pulls in beneath a pair of apple trees, gravel purring under the wheels as the car crawls to a stop.

 They're alone here, no sound of traffic. He can hear the plink plink plink of the exhaust pipe as it cools. John puts his hand on the nape of his neck, Joe can feel the fuzzy corona of his cardigan sleeve whispering against his skin. He exhales slowly, John's fingers are cool against him, cooler than his skin but slick from gripping the steering wheel.

 This isn't new. Not the need, or the gratitude or that feeling like pressing on a bruise. He turns to John and he knows he's begging really, his lips a little parted. John's thumb teases just behind his left ear; to his embarrassment, he reacts by moaning softly, definitely. John's eyes drop to his mouth and he would goddamn, never, never- but the intimacy of the touch is almost painful and he hopes and leans toward him.

 John frowns and clicks his tongue. _Bad puppy_ , of course.

 “Joe.” John shakes his head, pinching at the scruff of Joe's neck to keep him still. The light from the windscreen, patterned by the breeze that stirs the leaves above them, shifts over John's face, the stern formation of his brows and mouth; an unforgiving gaze that unravels Joe completely.

 Joe grits his jaw to choke down the chalky taste of disappointment, of course who's to blame really? He should have known better. The bitterness melts in a familiar way to an insistent ache between his legs instead. His mouth's not for kissing but that's okay. He's really, really good at this. He smiles uncertainly at John and John pushes his head down to his lap.

 He rests one hand on John's thigh, the other, hesitant at first then grasping, twists little in the hem of his cardigan. John keeps pressure firm on the back of his neck, a good kind of weight as Joe coaxes him to hardness with his hands and mouth. He nuzzles his nose into the small patch of dark curls uncovered by his open fly, breathes in the musk of him as he kisses up his cock. John smells of clean sweat and soap and under that something deep and pungent that reminds him both of the oak drawer where his mother used to keep her private letters and the tents he shared in the Hitler Youth.

 And yes he's good at this, though John's never said so, but then they don't talk about this anyway, even the first time John had put him on his knees there'd been no _talking_ , it had just...happened. Being good means the quick reward of John's precome on his tongue, a small, satisfied grunt from above when Joe chokes himself on the thick head of his dick. The stiff air inside the car grows humid with sound – a sucked-in breath, a gasp being bitten off and swallowed, no messy noise of slobber, he knows he's got to be careful here, the guttural gulp of a throat convulsing.

 John trusts him not to make a mess or maybe, and Joe can't help the thought or the twinge of shame that follows it and makes his own cock throb, he thinks Joe is hungry enough after so long away that he won't want to spill a drop. It's a fantasy (not because John knows, he knows it all, doesn't he?) that John is thinking about him at all, but he lets it stay.

 His own hips almost jerk off the seat when John comes, filling up his mouth with that viscous taste of the sea, the accomplishment of John's grip tightening to a collar around his throat. His fingers dig in tight enough at John's leg when he swallows that the fabric squeaks.

 There is a moment after when John's hand passes through his hair so softly that he breaks out in a shiver. The base of his spine is pearled with perspiration, he can feel the damp heat of it as he sits up, his shirt sticking to his skin beneath his jacket and his cock a blatant ridge along the thigh of his neat suit trousers. John already looks untouchable, cool and immaculate apart from the two slight dashes of pink across his cheekbones. He considers Joe and the jut of his erection, an evaluation that feels treacle slow.

 “Are you going to be able to get yourself under control?” he asks.

 “Yes, sir.” He exhales the words eagerly without really thinking.

 John's eyes don't move from him. Joe wonders how far to the airport, minutes, miles, whichever, how long having to sit there, hard like diamond, trying somehow to will it away. He imagines how John would glance at him, at the unspoken, palpable dissatisfaction as the clock runs down and he finds that Joe's still hard, and maybe worse, leaking enough he's about to stain his trousers, keeping his hands away from himself but fidgeting all the same, digging his fingers into the leather of his seat, breathing in the smell of John, the taste of him still thick on his tongue-

 “You mean 'no', don't you, Joe?” John says. He hands Joe a handkerchief from the glove box with what feels like resigned disapproval. “Take care of it then.”

 He can't look at John as he takes the handkerchief. As he pulls out his cock he hears the sound of the window rolling down and the spark of John's lighter. Birdsong pours in, along with noise of the wind shifting the branches above them and the paper-dry whisper of John's lips inhaling around a cigarette.

 John has one elbow out the window, not watching as Joe brings himself to a quick, unsatisfying climax. Joe's head lolls back as he spills into the little linen square and though his eyes meet exactly with their reflection, staring straight at himself in the rear view mirror, he doesn't see that he's looking at anything at all.

 


End file.
